


hand-reared, no reins

by longingly



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Breathplay, Cock Worship, Come Inflation, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, Exhibitionism, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Hemipenes, Large Cock, Light Angst, Non-Human Genitalia, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Teratophilia, Tongues, Vaginal Sex, Worldbuilding, and weird dicks as i see fit, and you will have some feelings with your filth as i see fit, i can and will give the zun lore as i see fit, tonguefucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25753234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longingly/pseuds/longingly
Summary: The Warrior of Light has long gazed upon him, wondering: what would it be like, to be tended to?Szem Djenmai has long gazed upon her, wondering: would she let him?
Relationships: Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)/Szem Djenmai (Final Fantasy XIV), Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)/Zun (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 55
Collections: August Novel Pairing Challenge 2020





	hand-reared, no reins

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense they are very, [_very_ big](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/738888529215488120/738888577966014504/SPOILER_unknown.png). 
> 
> The Warrior of Light is [this gal](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/738888529215488120/738888548706418728/unknown.png), an unnamed Xaela bard.

The shock and awe of a new land subsides in the way it always does: with the acute pains of the present, anxious looks towards the future, and the paradoxical comfort of the ever-present mundane.

No matter where in the world-- _worlds_ now, she supposes-- trouble takes her, the needs of man always seem to stay the same. The breaking of bread, the crafting of goods. The running of errands that could be done by someone not saving the world with scant little free time.

And yet… Keeping idle hands in the Crystarium feels like being an ingracious guest. The light had done such terrible things to Norvrandt, and there were so few bastions from its blinding and terrorizing reign.

Upon the eve of her arrival, she was swift to learn of the nature of their self-sufficient machinations. Every soul that resided within its walls pulled its weight, and much of its crops and sundries were procured on site.

Unfortunately-- for both them and for her-- she's never been very clever with her hands. No patience for it really; in truth, she hardly has enough to keep her own _bow_ in working order, much to the dismay of every mender she so sheepishly brings it to. This dearth in her abilities leaves two options for a clumsy Warrior of Light turned Darkness: the collection of _godsdamned_ tomestones or the slaying of beasts both large and small, and she'll take the latter _any_ day of the week.

There's something about the adrenaline rush of getting down into the grime and muck of the land that's so much more satisfying than the niceties of clean and orderly turnins. Glutting herself on the competition of the hunt is something firm, something _real_ that she can sink her fangs into, a mouth full of gristle and fat and sinew. Something to tether her to the here and the now, between her and the endless skies of daylight in these lands of the First where she has not yet subsumed those who consume.

The path she walks is ethereal; it always has been. She is of Hydaelyn, and that is the nature of Light. But here in Norvrandt that light is made solid, porcelain and heavy, laid bare for all to see.

She is not a fool, for all that she plays the part. Y’shtola’s words in the Greatwood still sit in her belly like mossy river stones. The aether in her is tainted, _sick_. Every Warden suffused into her soul turns her sour, like old milk. She can feel herself curdling. But what choice does she have but to keep going? (When has she _ever_ had a choice to do _anything_ but keep going?)

Somewhere, she knows, Emet-Selch’s smile is unfurling like the frond of a fern as she twists herself into knots over the fate she’s _very_ certain he’s aware of, and that’s _it_. She’s had _enough_. Neither he nor her godsdamned fate will have any sway over her today-- she will rinse away the anxiety of her night sweats, have a hearty breakfast at the Wandering Stairs, and head down to the Rookery to kill two birds with one stone. She’s going to treat herself to an eyeful and fetch herself a fistful of mark bills and start the day off _right_.

Yes, she thinks, straightening her spine. That sounds like a right fucking delight.

She takes the stairs down to the Rookery two at a time, her footsteps light against the bricks. Yalm by yalm her anxiety eases, and she feels no guilt for it. Her room in the Pendants is lovely and she’s grateful for it, but it’s where she retires to lick her wounds, and as of late there have been more wounds than not. It is a place of shame and pain, not a place akin to home.

The Clan Hunt board is unoccupied this early in the morning, so she slides towards it to pick it over, her mismatched gaze scanning over familiar portraits. Home, she thinks, is a fickle concept. She’s never bothered to take up residence in _any_ of the districts set aside for adventurers, so the lack of a place to retreat to in Norvrandt does not fill her with any sort of pain or even longing. Being on the Source with the Scions dropping to unconsciousness like flies all around her had felt much worse than being here, that much was for certain, especially now that she’s rounded them all up from the corners of Not-Eorzea like a pack of stray coeurls.

But does it feel like _home_?

Her eyes slide across the cobblestone to drink in her favorite part of all the Crystarium, and a crooked smile spreads across her lips unbidden. The Rookery houses fowl of all sizes and statures, but Amaro are quite obviously the most common. They are mostly even-tempered, although she’s unsure of how much of that is nature and how much of that is careful nurture, for there is a great deal of the latter. She remembers very clearly that each one is raised from egg to adulthood right here in the Rookery, tended to by the Zun who _too_ are raised from youth so that they might become the shepherds of the flock.

Not for the first time, it strikes her how _different_ they are from the Amalj’aa. The Brotherhood of Ash is borne of fire and war, but here in the First the Zun have grown in parallel with animal husbandry at their side. They hold that art in their hearts, treat it as sacred just as the Amalj’aa do their arts of combat, pass it down from generation to generation. This isn’t to say that she thinks that they’re a docile people-- far from it, they are still sharp of teeth and claw and ferocious enough to terrify a _great_ number of men and beasts-- but…

In the distance, she has seen the smoke rising from the communal tents late into the newfound night, pale and swirling against unfamiliar stars. Unlike the other beast tribes, all of the Zun do now call the Crystarium home, and she wonders, with a low, simmering heat in her belly: What would it be like? To be tended to, for once?

Someone mutters as they nudge her away from the board not so gently. She sneers, stepping aside with papers in hand. The details of her quarry are long forgotten for now, dissipated from her memory like sand through a sieve. She _should_ tuck them away into her bag so that they’re safe and sound, ready for her to review for when she steps out into the city and into the wild.

Instead, she clutches them tight in her hand, rifling through them with unseeing eyes as she edges closer to the Rookery itself, giving the enclosures furtive glances in hopes of catching Szem Djenmai’s eye.

There are a number of Zun she's made her acquaintance with thus far, but he remains the most affable of them, albeit one of the busiest. The Rookery rarely sees a quiet day let alone a quiet hour, but any complaints she can offer are weak ones, for it gives her much time to linger around the gates. The others pay her no real mind beyond a polite nod of the head, their huge, curved horns bobbing as they do. At least they no longer view her presence with suspicion, she supposes, turning her eyes back to Szem with a look she schools into something _almost_ appropriate for friendliness.

From this distance it’s easy to see how luxurious his fur is, in no small part due to how _much_ there is. The Amalj’aa back home are smooth, malms of leathery skin that gleam beautifully under the hot Thanalan skies. The Zun, however, are half covered in the stuff. From the tops of their heads it coats their necks and sprouts into wonderful, full neck ruffs that look dreadfully soft. It spreads halfway down their massive arms and coats part of their chest, wrapping around to hang down from their upper back. It resumes around their waist, tracing down the topside of their tail, wrapping around their outer thighs and-- as she has _much_ thought about-- their groin.

Sashes and bones do little to offer even a modicum of decency, so their purpose _must_ be simple aesthetics.

It certainly doesn’t do anything but draw _her_ eyes to the conspicuous, at least.

She sighs, watching Szem as he absentmindedly runs a clawed hand through his thick ruff, longing to chase it with her own, desperate to know if he would keen under her ministrations. Her fingers are so much smaller, thin and delicate things, eager to tease out any knot and snag until every ilm is silken smooth beneath her touch. She worries at her lower lip with a fang just hard enough to draw a tiny droplet of blood as her soon to be ravenous daydream builds its momentum, startled only as she hears her name from his lips.

She nearly tears the mark bills in her hands clean in two.

"H-hello! Szem!" she chokes, rocking back on her heels to look up (so far, _far_ up) at her friend as he approaches. The harsh sun reflects off the indigo of her scaled tail, shimmering as it twists itself into nervous knots. For all that she'd been vying for his attention, she hadn't truly expected more than his customary wave. She coughs nervously, then points at a fretting customer. "You didn't have to leave your charges behind just for me."

She keeps her eyes deliberately trained on his face rather than his claws as he offers up the Zun equivalent of a grin, his great maw parted, his teeth only partially on display. "They can suffer a brief wait while I greet a friend," he says lightly, laying his hand upon the neck of a nearby amaro, stroking its feathers idly, sparing her the shrewdness of his vivid gaze as he tends to it sweetly. "You bring yourself so frequently, and never do I hear the voice I know so well calling from the gate."

She considers dying on the spot, because he's right of course.

It's just so much _easier_ to talk to Szem in chanced passing; paused in the Musica Universal with a new tincture in hand, or candid chats as they traverse the Trivium under stars neither of them recognize. Brief moments. Moments where she does not have to see the whole of him, merely has to glimpse the pieces of him rather than the gestalt.

The beautiful, wonderful, shining gestalt of him as he works under the Norvrandt sky: a sight for sore eyes before she vanishes into the woods to soothe the aches and pains of carrying the weight of worlds upon her shoulders.

Weakly, she holds up her wrinkled excuses.

“I, ah. I just come to pick up my prey before I vanish into the woods. The beasts do not care if it is dark or light, after all. Their antics remain much the same. So I come to offer my… briefest of greetings." She shrugs, offering a wave that could almost be described as weak.

“Then I might accept them,” Szem Djenmai replies with a gracious nod of the head, a note of amusement in his gravelly voice, “although, you _are_ permitted to enter through our gates.”

“Ah, well. That I am,” she echoes, eyeing it suspiciously, doing her best not to let her eyes linger overlong on his tail in the process. This close, she is reminded that is longer than she is tall. “You’re just always so busy, especially as of late. Moonlight flights seem to be a popular desire among the masses.”

The scoff she gets in return is somewhat of a surprise. They rarely talk of his work when they run up against each other in the Crystarium. “The masses desire a _great_ many things of our flock, without training and without patience. They think not of the process, only the results, without much regard for the beasts themselves."

It elicits a bark of laughter, one that she does not cover behind a hand. "Too true of many, not just of flocks. You describe the world." She leans up against a post, giving in to her desire to sway closer, indulging in her whims. Just a little. Just a tad. For the sake of polite conversation.

He nods. "Yes, and we as their shepherds must shield them now more than ever. For if not us, then who?” His gaze is fervent, and his tone is more so. “Someone must give them time. Give them _space,_ lest they wither. Beasts are not so different from plants, at times. We must be carefully minded, by someone, if not ourselves.” Szem’s shoulders sag and he exhales. The fire fades from his voice, but she knows it remains in his belly: this ferocious and tender need to take care of something whose only job is to serve. “Ah, I must apologize, for you deserve no lecture for a question _quite_ innocent indeed.”

“I don’t mind,” she replies in a hurry, the words escaping her in a single, genuine breath. If anything, it’s reassuring to hear stories of such care in the world, especially when much of what she rails against is not just cruelty in this world, but _apathy._ “Truly, I don’t. Honestly, I’ve never felt more envious of a godsdamned bird!”

As soon as the words slip from her lips her body freezes from crown to toes, her eyes as wide as saucers. A nervous laugh creaks out of her chest, a door much in need of oil slowly forced open. Too much revealed that should have been left in the dark.

Her ventures down here were to be for _fun_ and for _looking_ , not seeking out relations with a beast tribe that, to her knowledge, did not _have_ relations outside of their own.

“Ah, by that I mean--” she starts, acutely aware of how many other Zun are around them _within earshot_ , although none of them so much as blink in their direction, “I am under a _great_ deal of pressure, and I just, _uhm_ \--”

She squeezes her eyes tightly, sucking in a sharp breath through her nose to steady herself. When she opens them again, Szem is reaching out slowly, so slowly, with the care and deliberation she’s seen him use to settle even the most agitated of amaro. He splays one of those huge, huge hands across her shoulders, and it spans the breadth of her entire torso and more. He keeps his touch feather-light despite its size and weight, and she swears the warmth of it penetrates her leathers.

“Hush now,” he hums, and she can _feel_ it travel through her body, radiating from the chest down. “I would give you that, if you so desire it.” He steps closer, so that the bulk of him can block her from the view of the stairs, from the balcony. The Crystarium buzzes all around them, oblivious to this moment of delicate and blooming gossamer that she does not yet understand.

She says as much, her voice barely a whisper.

“You look,” he says, quite simply, “and quite often at that.” He presses the pad of his thumb between her shoulder blades, rubbing at her the knobs of her spine, eliciting a gasp that she tries to swallow down and fails. She is unable to stop herself from leaning back into Szem Djenmai’s warm, secure grip, throat thick with tears. She has been seen-- _perceived--_ so summarily that it has stunned her into silence, and for once she’s not sure what to do. In the past, she’s easily turned down all manner of roguish women and beautiful men, but for once she is completely and utterly tongue-tied, for all that is in her hollow heart is the simple yearning for someone to behold her, and her alone. As she is. No mantle, and no light. She wants to be stripped down, no longer some _one_ but some _thing_ cared for. Is that not what he could offer?

“Oh. Well,” she says, laughing, at first watery, then a little hysterical. “ _Fuck._ Well, I suppose there’s no use denying it, is there?” She runs a hand through her dreads, and _is_ kind of hilarious, now that she thinks about it. She never expected any of her ogling to be _returned_ , but it’s not any less mortifying to realize exactly how obvious she was about it. It’s a little hard to focus on the shame of it when she’s being petted like a chick with ruffled feathers, and just as gently. It’s a little hard to focus in general, really. “So what would that mean, exactly? That…you would have me?”

She's still contemplating the idea of pinching herself to see if it might rouse herself from sleep but is wholly deterred by it as Szem's grip on her gently _shifts_.

He takes hold of her torso more completely, curling his massive fingers around her to form a loose fist. This way, he can pet at her front with just the most minute of squeezes, and the simple act of it sends flames roaring up her face. He's large enough that he could simply pick her up like a cup if he so desired. She tosses nervous looks to either side to check for wandering eyes, but still, there are only the other Zun of the Rookery, who act as though nothing is amiss, and perhaps nothing is.

Perhaps this is just how the Zun are with their partners! Overly affectionate where all can see. Communally witnessed. Her mind races, heart thudding in her ears-- and then, all of that beautiful, wonderful touch is gone.

Instantly, she shivers from the loss. A sad little sound escapes her throat, and it earns her a chuckle.

“Ah, do not pout,” he murmurs, and tips her chin upwards with the nudge of a claw. “I merely spoke and found that you had not heard my words, so lost in touch you were."

“A pout! I take umbrage to the notion!” she gasps, feigning insult, but her words are not yet back to her full playful tone. She is still unsteady, adrift at sea. The phantom breadth of his hand still lays against her back, and wants nothing more than it back. No. She wants it back against her bare skin, she wants it without his rings, and she wants more, and more, and-- “I would have your answer.” A beat, and then, with a low note of desperation: “again, please. I am listening, I swear it.”

Szem Djenmai smiles with too many teeth and she admires them all as he tells her where to meet him that night, and how she will be had. He does not touch her again and she does not ask for it, even though she has to bite her tongue nearly clean through to keep from begging for it. She is wet in her smallclothes by the time she flees the Rookery, and after a quick trip to the Pendants for a change she has the most successful day hunting in recent memory.

Fuck, she feels so incredibly, incredibly alive, and she can almost ignore the tainted Light inside of her, if only for a day.

(And, hopefully, if only for a night.)

When she meets Szem at the Zun camp just past twilight, he walks her through it at her pace rather than his, standing so close that their tails occasionally slide against each other. Scales to scales. Scales to fur. She learns that their tents are organized in a sensible way: the closer they are to the front of the camp, the more available they are to outsiders, and they’re outfitted as such. Whether it’s for bartering for hatchlings or arrangements for training, dealings with the public are more open air, closer to market stalls than anything else. Past these tents lie rows and rows of huge tables and fire pits. She feels a niggling of guilt as they _used_ to not require any sort of covering to compensate for inclement weather, but now that she’s brought back the night, rain is a new and unexpected foe. She sidesteps a puddle in the waterlogged grass with a wince.

The residential tents are next, and they are few, each heavily adorned by skulls of beasts both large and small. Much like the Amalj’aa, the finer details of individual possessions do not bog down the Zun, a fact that extends from the physical to the carnal. The confirmation of her initial suspicions has sent her momentarily reeling, and it explains in a flash why there are not many engagements between the Zun of the Crystarium and outsiders, at least.

At the edge of the tent, she knows that she stands on the threshold of change. She looks up at Szem with a grin that is truly, sincerely wolfish before ducking under his arm and popping inside, letting her tail tease across his belly on her way in.

The air inside is immediately thick with some burning herb, rich and earthy, and the light is low, ruled by torches along the perimeters. There are a number of Zun already retired there for the night, although none yet asleep. Two are playing a game she doesn't recognize, and one reads by a lamp off by themselves. Each one of them has their own truly massive pad surely full of a truly _obscene_ amount of amaro and chocobo down, and Szem leads her to his own.

None of them pay her any real mind as he removes his accessories one by one, and she takes a seat at his side to sit and watch the ritualistic act of disassembling himself in preparation for play. The Zun are as in need of the heat as the Brotherhood of Ash, it seems: the air is so, so warm. A bead of sweat trickles down the nape of her neck, sliding its way down the collar of her shirt, past her clavicle and down the curve of her breast. She had not bothered with a bra or smallclothes beneath her tunic and pants; hardly seen the point. Ever the utilitarian, but now she is hyper aware of how very little is between her and a half dozen potential dark and inscrutable gazes.

Knowing what she does now, she wonders how long it has been since someone who is _not_ Zun has been in here, since someone has been brought into their home. She’s not sure if they collectively see her as an intruder or a guest-- or, at least, not yet.

Perhaps that’s what they’re here to see.

Szem stretches out on his belly, loose limbed and comfortable, his huge arms crossed in front of him. She wets her lower lip at the sight of him, all compact muscle and shining fur in the low light, sliding closer. There’s so _much_ of him she hardly knows where to look first. How could she not feel all-consumed? Heat spreads across the back of her neck like flames touched to oil; it certainly won’t show on her dark skin in the dim torchlight, but she feels it, sure as day. She is a starving woman being offered a surfeit of a meal. A banquet. A _feast--_

“You know,” he says, the amusement in his voice ringing clear as a retainer’s bell. “Touch _is_ allowed. Are you not eager, after all that time spent gazing from afar?” He politely turns his head to the side, baring his back to her, so that she might approach him without the interference of his horn.

“Don’t be cruel!” she gripes, breath already shaky in her lungs, “you know I am!” Just for that, she clambers atop his massive back, acutely aware of how impossible it is to actually straddle him on her own. The second she's up there, she finds herself grabbing a fistful of thick, silken fur, lest she immediately topple head over hips. Looking down at how wide her legs are stretched across his back makes her dreadfully grateful for her thrice weekly lessons as a dancer. She squeezes her thighs experimentally and sends a prayer up to the gods in thanks.

The laugh from beneath her is deep, accompanied by a rumble that reverberates through Szem Djenmai’s chest-- like one of Cid’s airship engines roaring to life-- and threatens to undo all her work and pitch her right off. She has to yank _hard_ on his fur to get him to bleeding stop, and the heat in her belly is piqued with satisfaction when the sound transforms into something low and a little feral.

“You’ll hurt a girl’s feelings with all that laughing,” she says, but her warning is toothless. She’s already enchanted by the searing heat separated only by a bit of fur and linen, by the sight of his curved, tapered horn just within reach, eager to get an up close look on something usually so far above her line of sight. The ridges along its top cascade down it in a pattern akin to the cascades of a waterfall before lessening. They’re beautiful.

“Forgive me,” he says, a little breathless. With it comes the most minute rock of his hips. “I merely find your unpredictability charming.”

She snorts. “A pretty way of calling me strange, methinks, but you wouldn’t be the first.” That horn of his is taller than she is _long_ , much like his tail. Even though she’s tall among Au Ra women, she knows that they in general do not hold a candle to a number of other races in that department. She also knows by now that she does not come up to the waist of even the most average of Zun. She lets out her own breathless laugh. “I doubt I’d be here otherwise.”

Carefully, so as to not send her flying, she can feel him bear down against the bed as she explores him. A question about his prick lies heavy on her tongue, but the whimsical side of her desperately wants to be surprised, so she stays it. When he speaks again, he sounds almost bashful. “Then may we both be strange. I have not had such a hunger for any in so many moons, let alone one so strong for one outside my people.”

“Then we _are_ both a little odd,” she agrees, and carefully loses her hold on his fur with one hand so that her calloused fingertips can trace the underside of his horn gently and with grace, and immediately squeezes her thighs around him in barely restrained delight. “You keep it so _smooth_!” She rubs a knuckle insistently along where horn meets skin at the crown of his head, taking immense satisfaction from the sound that roils in his chest like the promising powerful thunder before rain.

(A fleeting memory of childhood returns to her from a fuzzy, bygone era-- from before the mantle of The Light had been thrust upon her, from before she was more icon than mortal, from before she was more of a _Being_ than someone allowed to _be alive--_ and it is clean and sharp and true.

The sky is grey above her, and the waters of the ocean before her are choppy, huge. She stands at the pier of Costa del Sol, and time is moving in slow motion. Her parents are running towards her, but it is too late. The storm opens up with peals of thunder and thin bolts of lightning, and she dives, she _dives_ \--)

The world returns to her as Szem’s hips stutter so profoundly she pitches forward, gasping softly in surprise at the knowledge that such a small touch could bring him such pleasure. It was only a pity that this would be nigh impossible to utilize given their disparities in height. It was enough to make her pout.

“There is,” Szem murmurs, shaking his head minutely, careful not to cleave her off her perch, “a polish, comprised of amber cloves, oils. Do you not use such things for your scales?”

Her bark of laughter is surely enough to garner any attention they did not have before, and she winces. He promised her, however, that they would not insinuate themselves into their conversation. This time is for her, for him. She must be known in order to be _known._ “Nay, I do not trifle with such frivolities.” A beat, then she winces, working her deft fingers through the fur at the nape of the Zun’s neck in apology. “Not to call your customs frivolous. I seem to be awfully good at sticking my foot in my mouth around you. I just…” Another shrug, although he cannot see it. Now is not the time to explain to a poor unsuspecting soul how all her time goes into being a beast of burden herself for the Light. “…Do not spare the time.”

When she gets no reply, she truly hopes she has not committed any grievous offense with her careless words, but Szem is merely finding a way to stand without dropping her on her arse, which is much appreciated. What’s _less_ appreciated is that he does so by hoisting her up onto her knees by the back of her flimsy shirt, earning him half an indignant squawk in the promise.

“Tending to you,” he promises, voice rough, “ _all_ of you, is a conversation for another time. Do not think it is one to be forgotten.”

She blinks, taken aback, lips quirking into a smile all the same. “My, Szem, is that a _threat_ I detect?” she asks, sly. “Will you cart me off to shine me like a trinket? Would you make my hair shine and skin glisten, too, for all to see?”

A claw the size of her face tears its way through her thin tunic, although it is careful not to do more than skim her skin with the faintest of cuts. “Yes,” he says bluntly, and both of his cocks fully slide free from his slit, hot and wet, and the sight steals her breath away. “I _would_. But for now, I would keep my promise to distract you.”

“Well,” she chokes, blinking down-- well perhaps not strictly _down_ , as _down_ would imply that what she was looking at was more than a mere _ilm_ below eye level, “this is rather more than I anticipated, I think.” The air in the tent is sticky and hot, but her skin breaks out into gooseflesh regardless, her nipples peaking for all to see. The dark and muted purple of her face is flushed ruddy enough now to swallow up the vibrant red of her freckles, so warm and stark against the cool blue of the scales that cradle her face.

"By all accounts you have been anticipating for two moons, now," he croons, carefully running two claws through the dreads of her hair, his touch gentle with the patience of someone who has reared skittish birds since they were chicks. She is not delicate but they are _huge_ , behemoth. Each one is thicker than her wrists combed. "Tell me, what did you expect?"

She knees forward enough to flex her hands against Szem's furred thighs where they join his hips, too intimidated for the moment to actually reach out and touch his conjoined cocks. Her claws dig into his leathery skin, and she thinks nothing of it. She could do no damage to him there if she tried.

The nature of dual pricks are not uncommon to her-- it is the same among Au Ra-- but they do not manifest in _this_ manner, and certainly do not emerge from _within_. The shapes of them are wholly foreign, and oh, the _size_! They're larger than even her wildest dreams, even the ones here in Norvrandt that had startled her awake so violently that she'd had to desperately shove her hand down her smalls.

"That you might have only _one_ cock for me to taste, for starters!" she exclaims, pulling a hand away from a lovely, sculpted thigh to slap it playfully, her mismatched gaze playful. Her lone limbal ring shines bright like a flame in the dark, the rest of her eyes swallowed up by nothing but the dark of pupils as she drinks in the sight of _two_ of an entirely alien design.

Thin, tapered tips jut proudly upwards, their pale and dusky pink giving way to the most vibrant of maroons as they flare wider towards their roots. Every widening ilm is gifted with a ridge, and at each base swells a hefty knot larger than a melon. They're as terrifying as they are delectable, and so hot she can almost feel the steam rising from them against her face.

Gods. There is drool collecting in her mouth, and wetness slides down her thigh. She shrugs out of her ruined shirt, half wishing in sheer frustration that he'd just tear the pants off of her as well to spare her the trouble. She'll worry about how she'll abscond with any sort of decency later.

"Oh?" Szem teases, trailing a claw down her chest, clavicle down the curve of her breast, the roughness of it just grazing her nipple. "Is that all?"

She shudders, locking eyes with him as she licks a wide stripe up her palms from wrist to fingertip. If he wishes to tease, then she can tease in turn. "No," she says, and experimentally encircles the head of his lower length with her grip, keeping it loose, working it with both hands in slow and steady twists. It's so _hot_ to the touch, and despite its size it feels almost delicate. It makes sense, really-- it did slide forth from within him, proof of his arousal for her to be seen by all. In an instant, watery pre gushes from its wide slit, its gape wider than her pinky. It's fascinating to watch how it twitches, asynchronous from its cousin. His slick is so plentiful that she does not fear any sort of handling of his cocks to come.

Szem's groan is soft but guttural, and she draws her courage from it as though it were a well. "I suppose I didn't really think about how… _proportionate_ it might all be," she continues with an uncharacteristic giggle, leaning forward on a whim to press a brief kiss to the head of his upper length in a mock apology. She is wholly curious to see if it will also erupt into a drooling mess in turn, and is ecstatic when it does. He tastes…

 _Delicious_.

She licks her lips in disbelief, as his slick is akin to a spice she cannot name, something aromatic and wonderful. She immediately presses her mouth to his cockhead again to lap at it as though it were a fountain, letting it run up against her face and fill her mouth as she moans, slurping it down with a sound so lewd it leaves her dazed. Her hold on his second prick stills, grasp tight as it pours over her, drenching her linen pants as the Zun marks her in his precome.

The heat of Szem's grip on her vanishes as he tears his hands away, clenching them into fists as his tail slaps against the ground so hard that the earth shakes beneath them. "Forgive me," he confesses, the words emitted with great pains through gritted teeth. "To see you, covered so," Szem confesses, hushed, " _is intoxication_."

"As is the taste of you," she replies with an eager squeeze, stepping closer so that both of his pricks must press up against her belly and slide up between her breasts. She is wholly dwarfed by them, and were she a weaker woman she would be hard pressed to heave them so. It is her turn to be a little feral, her hunger plain in sight. "You should hold still so that I may drink my fill."

Any doubts she may have had about their worthiness of witness have long since fluttered away like petals on a breeze. Even the Zun who had been engrossed in their tome has turned their glittering orange eyes towards her like all the rest. She is painted, now. Marked and born anew.

She meets each of their gazes in turn, unashamed, before turning her full attention back onto her much bewildered Szem Djenmai.

He tosses his head like a beast prepping for a charge, and she has a sneaking suspicion he might not be able to comply with her command. She finds herself hoping for it, pussy throbbing between her legs, tail lashing behind her wildly.

"I," he starts, "will, _endeavour_ , an attempt--"

In the face of his weakness, she pounces with determination fixed square upon her face. She wraps both of her arms around the cock pressed up against her chest-- as it is thick enough there to _require_ it, as far too wide for her slim hands-- and the ridges slide against her skin like the hot riverstones of a Doman massage parlor. She's rewarded with a ferocious snarl of pleasure as slick pours down from his pricks, and she can feel it _pulsing_ out from within him.

The taste and scent of Szem subsume her, and she licks and licks and _licks_ , the amount that puddles around her truly obscene. She stands up on her toes, as tall as she can go, and yet she still has to pull down so that she can wrap her lips around a pointed tip to finally, finally, begin her worship proper.

She drinks down the heady spice that is Zun pre in greedy gulps, eyes falling shut as she sups from him like a monetarist would from a most valuable of vintage, searing hot down her throat.

Her ecstasy does not last as Szem's self control crumbles. The surprise of her efforts shatters his attempts to be mindful of his powers and he looses a veritable roar as his massive hips jerk forward. The force of it knocks her back and leaves _her_ much bewildered, but his reflexes are quick. Before she can touch the ground, Szem's caught her neatly in the palm of his hand, grabbed so suddenly it steals her breath away.

She fits perfectly within it-- wholly and entirely-- from her shoulder to her rump. Her feet do not even touch the ground, and he moves to cradle her with both hands as though she were a prized crystal antique. He looks as startled as she.

For a moment, they are still. Insects trapped in amber, frozen in time. Her rabbit heart hammers fast in her chest, roaring over the silence that hangs in the scant few ilms of air between them.

She breaks it with a laugh, loud and sonorous, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. "My apologies," she says, voice sweet like honey, wrapping her arms around one of his thumbs, rubbing her mussed face against it like a cat does its owners ankle as it winds between their legs, "were you trying to be _gentle_?"

He snarls in her face, and she laughs again, reaching out for him with open palms.

They are far too disparate in size to meaningfully kiss, but he ducks his head down all the same, laying her down on the bedding not yet sullied and crawling over her. The shadow Szem casts over her is that of a mountain's, blotting out all light, and his maw is so close that the warmth of his breath huffs against the whole of her.

She lays a kiss upon his snout and briefly presses her forehead to it before sliding her tongue across the front of his fangs, intentionally nicking her tongue so that they may share the copper tang of blood like companions breaking that morning's fast.

He wants so much, and she wants nothing more than to give. His licks a hot stripe across her neck and up her face, cleaning up his drying slick with a pointed tongue that is surprisingly velvet soft.

Then he slides it across her mouth, _insistent_ , and she gets the idea.

"I don't know how much I'll be able to manage," she warns, and wraps a hand into his furred ruff, tugging on it. "If I let go…"

Szem nods, seemingly beyond words as his tail slithers against the ground, lashing aimlessly in his anticipatory desire. She sympathizes: hers is, too.

As soon as he's given permission, his tongue presses into her mouth. She lets it in, tilting her head back and keeping her jaw slack as she accepts it into her, swallowing it down as she digs her claws into his fur, holding on dearly as she trusts him with her all.

With her breath.

With her life.

There comes a time when it is simply too wide and long to go deeper, and for a moment, he simply holds it there. She cannot _breathe_ , throat working around the intrusion as drool slathers over her, dripping down her neck, her chest. It's only when black spots peek in around the corners of her vision that she releases his fur, and languidly he pulls out from her throat just long enough that she can suck in the air she needs and no longer.

They develop a rhythm: She holds, and he thrusts. She gags.

Her mind spirals out into nothing, and with a shaking hand, Szem curls the smallest of his massive fingers to press it between her legs. She needs no instruction to know to grind down against it, the roughness of his scaled hand eased by how drenched she is by her own slick and his, rocking her hips into it as he gives her a place to _grind_.

She moans his name incoherently, muffled by his _tongue_. The obscenely wet sounds of his cocks working together against the hide of his belly and the surface of the bed fill the air. Fuck. She longs so desperately to finally get one of them inside her so badly she thinks that she might die.

A whine vibrates through her throat as she rubs her clit against Szem's knuckle, letting it catch and drag beneath the hood where she likes it best. He takes the hint and rocks his curled digit there the best he can, the most minute of motions that feels so, _so_ good.

But she can take no more; her lungs burn, and her throat seizes from the strain of their game. With a shudder, her hands finally fall away from Szem's lovely fur, and he pulls his tongue free from her mouth in its entirety to _truly_ give her time to breathe.

"Szem," she gasps, voice hoarse and ragged, clinging to his face, feeling feverish and light. If she lets go she might drift away, like a balloon left untethered. His weight, immense and searing, is ground. "I need, _inside_ \--" it's _her_ turn to snarl wordlessly as her tail thumps the ground in frustration, slim as it is. She bares her teeth at him, even though her fangs are not nearly so sharp. She's never desired anything more viciously and doubts she ever will again.

He drags his tongue down her body, nudging her legs apart with the force of his muzzle alone. His vivid orange eyes are transfixed by her cunt. "Not yet. You would break upon it." Every syllable is forced, broken. She's amazed that he can speak.

She smooths her slick hands over his forehead, dragging her claws across his skin where it meets horn, taking great pleasure as he shakes against her. "I don't _care_ ," she hisses, petulant, "fucking _hurry_ \--"

He doesn't answer her prayer but what he _does_ is answer another she didn't even know she had, because the _second_ that tongue of his slides into her pussy she is ruined for any other Hyur, Elezen or Roe. Much like it was the perfect for the shape of her mouth and throat, the same could be said for her cunt. It fills her so wonderfully, thin to thick, prehensile and so, _so_ hot. The stretch of it is divine; all slick muscle that starts thin and tapered that thickens enough in ways she'll need if she wants to ride even the fraction of a cock that will fit inside her.

She _shrieks_ , voice still ruined and husky from deepthroating the very thing now rubbing up against her walls, twisting and rubbing very deliberately against that spot inside of her that will wrench her towards yet another orgasm if she's not careful.

" _Gods_ ," she moans, shoving her hand down to get past Szem's snout so that she can touch her clit again, toes curling as the huff of his labored exhalations wash over her. With the way he fucks it into her, pushing and testing the limits of how much can _fill_ her all on his own, she might as well have a living toy built to serve her whims, hot and servile. She rides him until she cums against his maw, and if she were a crueler woman would let him do naught but this for hours, _days_. But instead she is _selfish_ , and the tasty things she wants to touch and hold and put within her have been so cruelly neglected for so long, and he has been _so_ good.

On the crest of yet another completion, she has to shout "En-o-ou- _ough!"_ as pleasure sparks out from within her so intense that it has her shaking hard, thighs quivering from the exertion. She paws at his chest, his pricks so far out of reach, eager to get the curved tip of one finally within her.

She is in a haze, now, a demon possessed. A tempered thing, a slave to one being and one being only. " _Now_. I want it _now._ " She bites at his shoulder and gets a mouth full of fur, and when this is all over she knows they will both laugh at her tantrum.

For now, though, they are Au Ra and Zun at their most primal, and Szem _roars_ his agreement. He hauls himself up and carts her with him, presses her up against his belly. She straddles both of his cocks, and gods she had almost forgotten how large they swell at their bases.

"I will _fill_ you," he snarls, the thrum of it vibrating through every ilm of her, "to the _brim_." It is both a promise and a threat, one that elicits in her nothing but terrifying levels of arousal.

She eagerly dips her fingers into his slit again, sucking it off of her fingers as she squeezes her thighs taut against the fattest ridge of his prick above its massive knot. " _Now_ ," she breathes, stretching back against him, rubbing her cheek against his leathery pec. As she winds her fists into his fur, something finally catches her much distracted senses, she stretches out to better preen.

They have finally gathered around them, eager to watch as she is finally split wide upon one of Szem Djenmai's cocks.

She is not the thin and graceful thing that a caster might be, but she knows the extent of her beauty. The taut muscles that come with the athletics of constant action and aerobics, ever on the move-- they lend themselves to a body sculpted lithe, lean. A being of perpetual motion, her toned stomach now fluttering as she is _presented_. Back bowed, cunt forward, tits shifting as Szem forces her legs wider and wider apart. He holds her so surely, by both of her thighs, yes, but supporting her arse, her back; the whole of her. She is his to manipulate and slake his thirst upon.

Slowly, slowly, he presses the tip inside. Its upward curve slides inward with a slick sound and _gods_ , the feeling is something akin to holy. She lolls her head to the side to try and look at where they join, and it is impossible to miss. Another ilm presses into her, the meat of her thighs completely consumed by the meat of Szem's hands as he controls her descent upon his prick entirely.

He rocks upwards, and her squeal is piercing, stomach jumping as the stretch of another ridge disappears inside of her. She can take it, she knows she can, and she laughs wildly like a creature undone as she bears down on the monstrous _thing_ inside her as it pumps her full of watery slick.

Oh, gods. It's so much. When he pulls her _up_ it gushes out of her cunt, dripping down and out of her and the shame of it makes her want to clench her legs shut. "Szem!" she gasps, his name soon a litany on his lips, her tail curling in circles adrift as his own thuds against the ground, a sound soon accompanied by the other Zun in a rhythmic and thunderous pattern that overwhelms the whole of her. It must _mean_ something, but it is something she cannot yet divine. All she knows is that she. Needs. _More_.

So he gives, and he gives. He thrusts up and into her again and she looses curse after curse into the sticky night air. One of her hands falls to press against her belly, and to feel the bulge of his prick rock upside her as she shivers and shakes is hotter than she can stand.

For all the ilms she cannot take him in depth, the _breadth_ she is bearing has her mind still spinning. Not much more will make it in her without tearing her asunder, and the seal of her lips around his fat cock is _tight_. It pulsates inside her, throbbing as his pre fills her up with nearly nowhere to go. His lower length still drips below them, the sound of its wetness obscene. She desperately aches for another taste.

As she writhes, she can feel that still pumping slick slosh around inside of her, and knows that it is a precursor for what's to come. Her stomach swells beneath her grasp and it leaves her scrabbling to grab for his fur again, breath hitching in her chest--

Without warning, Szem pulls his length out entirely, leaving her gaping and wet. She sobs from the emptiness, tears springing to her eyes. "Please," she begs, needy, " _why--_ "

Szem merely growls, laving his tongue down her body, flicking it against her open cunt for just a moment before showing her off to each of the other Zun in turn. She sees, now, through blurry eyes, that the ritual of sex is now one shared. She has no idea how they fit together as they couple-- a part of her, very far away, is desperate to find out how-- but they _are_ , and it explains why the air is thick with the musky scents of sex and spice, and why her senses innundated with nothing but Zun, Zun, _Zun._

She sobs openly with hiccuping wails as he thrusts back into her with finality, the heat inside of her as he comes that of a blazing volcano. Unlike his slick, it's _thick_ , and the force of it filling her up as he keeps that curved tip inside of her is driving her _insane_. He's pulled out enough so that it can drip out from between her legs, down the rest of his wonderful cock, his huge knot. Even still, the bump of her belly grows, steadily being filled with a seemingly endless amount of come.

"We are witnessed," he croons into her ear, even as she shakes like a leaf, wrung out and spent, pleased and proud at his words, at the proof of his desires now deep inside her, and those of the Zun now all around her. "We are _seen_."

Exhaustion creeps in around the corners as Szem's words sink into her bones. Tears spring to her eyes anew, and she buries her face into his chest anew, nodding against him as he pulls her off his length, still keeping her in his arm, tucked against his chest like one might a chick.

She lets herself lean against him, eyes fluttering shut, tail curling around what of his bicep it can. The Warrior of Light knows very little of herself, really, but she knows this: she is well-fucked and ruined, and a tool that is not often put well to rest.

The night beyond that instant is lost to her save treasured moments like scraps of a tattered and timeworn map; the night air cool against her face as she's carried from one tent to the next, the scrub of a towel against the whole of her to clean her in a shock, and a wordless lullaby she has oft heard soft late into the night, sung by her Szem Djenmai in the Temenos Rookery.

**Author's Note:**

> Good lord! This beast is complete after a fervent week of horny for Zun madness, and I owe it very much to my beta and all of the remarkable people in the [Book Club](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) discord server. I slammed in with a fevered look in my eye ranting and raving about how big the Zun are and then this happened. 
> 
> The zunfic would not exist without their endless encouragement and support, with a special thanks to Marzana in particular, whose work brought me to the server to begin with, and offered me immense and particular support.
> 
> Another special thanks to my beta, who I shall not name, a very close friend who I frothed at the mouth about regarding this until we both keeled over, and then died!
> 
> This ALSO accidentally ended up being perfected timed for the Novel Pairing Challenge Month, which is a wonderful and charming coincidence.


End file.
